


A Ranger, Caught Off His Guard

by Vulgarweed



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Nonconsentacles, Other, Porn Battle, Tentacle Porn With No Redeeming Social Value, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6381706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the all-too-brief years of Balin's reclamation of Khazad-dûm, the Ranger Aragorn of the Dúnedain embarks on a mission to gather information and warn the Dwarves of peril. The Doors of Durin are still shut, and the peril that lurks nearby is one no one had imagined.</p><p>Written for <a href="http://pbam.dreamwidth.org/">Porn Battle Amnesty</a>. Prompt: Aragorn/Watcher in the Water, tentacles, lust, pheromones, wet, indignity, body, shame, undressed, slime, dark, mud</p><p>HUGE thanks to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Besina/pseuds/Besina">Besina</a> for very quick beta work!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Ranger, Caught Off His Guard

The young man’s name changed with the leagues - his long steps took him from the taverns and hills where he was Strider down to the meadows and towers where he was Thorongil, back to the hidden valley where he was Estel, and out again to far Harad where the stars were strange and his name was unpronounceable. There and back again he wandered the wide world, and back to the northlands where he was Chief of the Dunedain, and the starlit prophetic waters of Mirrormere in the Dimrill Dale glimmered with a destiny called Elessar.

The Dimrill Dale was fraught in this age, and the wanderer had a mission now that the doughty old Dwarf scholar Balin had brought a small faction of his friends and kin to re-establish the great Khazad-dûm, their mighty kingdom of old. The wandering Ranger, who thought of himself as Aragorn first and foremost, wished them well but his heart was troubled, for although the spectacular mining city beneath the Misty Mountains had once been a great stronghold unrivalled in beauty (by Dwarven standards anyway) and wealth, long had it lain abandoned, and the name of Moria had blackened. Fearsome, nameless things dwelt in the fathomless darkness there, and Orcs were breeding again in the mountains. 

Aragorn knew Balin would not take well to being told that some considered him foolhardy, so he must be diplomatic. He had nothing to tell the Dwarf lord that he didn’t already know, Aragorn suspected, and if he listened more than he talked, he could learn what Balin’s people had seen and heard in the darkness - for there was knowledge there that had been long lost, and perhaps some that had never seen the light of sun or moon at all.

Tilion waxed bright but fretful as Aragorn approached the spired peaks of the Misty Mountains from Eregion. The night was warm and a storm was threatening, grumbling and flashing far over the cruel stone points, and clouds passed quickly over the moon’s worried face. He still had a long way to go before he could come to the East Gate of Khazad-dûm and bathe the grime of travel away in the Silverlode, gaze into the Mirrormere, and make his amends to the restless spirits of the Burned Dwarves before presenting himself at the court, such as it must be. For if even Dain had hesitated to enter, seeing what he saw through the broken stone, then Balin must be even more foolhardy. One did not dissuade Dwarves from their path once chosen, however.

Aragorn decided that since he was not far from the West-Gate, it could do no harm to see if Balin’s folk had decided to open it to visitors. He would gaze again on the fair design representing Elven and Dwarven friendship from long ago at the very least, and if anyone could discover the secret of its opening from the outside again, Balin would be a likely prospect.

Yet the treacherous moonlight gave him little enough light to see by as he approached the great gate hewn into the mountainside. The cliff face stayed in stubborn shadow, and the only light glimmered on the surface of the pool that had risen steadily since the last time Aragorn had passed here. The Sirannon no longer sang as it once had, seeming to come to a brooding end here in this still, dark pool.

There was no sign that anyone had walked here for centuries, and no indication that there was a door at all, much less that it had been opened during this age. Long did Aragorn stand there hoping for a ray of moonlight or a stroke of better luck.

Sighing in frustration, he shook his heavy pack from his shoulders and sat down on a rock by the pool. Now he knew he would have to cross over Moria and make his appeal at the East-Gate, for he could not open this door. He was weary, and sweat had soaked through his linen underclothes unpleasantly and he itched to shed his leather outer layers and rest, for the night was warmer than he expected this high in the mountains.

For all its sinister reputation, this did not seem a terrible place to camp for the night, with water handy and a stone wall at his back. Aragorn tugged off his boots, wincing at the blisters that had formed on his tough wanderer’s feet, and dipped just his soles and toes in the cool black water of the pool. He shrugged off his outer-coat, and unbuckled his sword belt, keeping it close to hand nonetheless as he reached in his pack for rations - still some lembas remaining from his last visit to Lothlórien, still a generous weight and slosh in the skin of Dorwinion wine. He nibbled and drank and splashed his feet in the pool, feeling refreshed and relaxing at last as the grime and heat began to melt away from his skin and a pleasant warm feeling traveled from his belly to his head. He wriggled out of his leather jerkin and sat on the rock feeling a breeze through his linen shirt and breeches, glancing up at Tilion’s cloud-veiled face and hoping that the storm he could dimly hear would stay off to the north for the night.

He thought he felt something smooth brush his foot and then retreat.

A fish, he thought. Perhaps in the morning he would see about catching one or two; that would supplement his lembas supply nicely.

He stretched out his torso and groaned with satisfaction, reaching his arms up over his head to their full length and then bringing them down again, flexing his fingers. He was grimy all over. It bothered him a little that this water was so dark and impenetrable to his gaze, but the water was warm enough that the thought of bathing was enticing. Perhaps later, he thought, loosening the laces on his breeches and giving himself a scratch exactly where he never would in company. For now, he would find the best spot to lay down his bedroll, along the wall that led to the gate.

Aragorn stood up and stretched again fully, and then started to walk towards the wall, feeling the smooth field of pebbles on his bare feet.

And then he found himself flat on his face, the pebbles rolling along his chest and belly as he was pulled off his feet and dragged into the water as far as his waist. The smooth thing that had brushed his foot was now wrapped tightly around his ankle and held him as fast as iron shackles. He cried out and flailed for his sword, but he was nowhere near it. Wildly did he struggle, and tried to pull himself free of the slimy, muscular cord that held him. It gave him a moment’s respite, enough to shout and curse out his terror in several languages, and then it pulled again as Aragorn twisted in its grip. He felt a second coil twine around his other leg, around his knee and up the outside of his thigh, and the creature pulled again.

He had just enough time to come to his senses enough to fill his lungs before the strong arms pulled him under the surface. The pool was much deeper than he imagined, and dark as a tomb; he could see nothing as he struggled to hold off rising panic as yet a third grasping thing came up and nudged at him before wrapping itself around his waist.

Aragorn knew in his bones, down to his very spirit, had always been told that he had a destiny ahead of him. Surely he was not meant to die in a dark pool all alone, held down in the water by some sort of grasping water-serpent. He closed his eyes and found strength within as the last of his air left him, letting his body relax and go limp, his spirit reaching out to the stars that must glimmer still behind the clouds.

Just as his awareness began to fade and he at last gave himself up for lost, he was lifted free of the water suddenly. Coughing and gasping, Aragorn saw that the moon had shed his veils and shone brightly down upon the water, and now he could see what held him - strong, flexible slick arms of a greyish-green, with sucking graspers on the underside and long probing finger-like tips. The three arms that held him were soon joined by others, wrapping his legs fully and beginning to take his arms too as coils tightened around his waist and chest. Beyond them he could see others churning in the water, all emerging from the same invisible point of convergence. Not multiple snakes then - many tentacles all belonging to the same creature. 

The tentacles held him high above the surface for a moment as he dripped and writhed in their grasp, and then lowered him again until his feet dragged in the water. Thin tendrils bound his arms, and Aragorn fully now absorbed the helplessness of his situation - unarmed, barely dressed even, in the grasp of a mighty creature that could crush him or pull him apart or drown him easily, with no apparent mind he could appeal to. He let loose a curse in the Black Speech that burned his throat. The coils squeezed him - it seemed they responded to that tongue, though whether their source was pleased or angered was impossible to tell.

He said it again, and felt the tentacles shake him slightly. A long, thin one slithered up his back, holding him up, and coolly, inexorably, it wrapped itself around his throat. Wonderful, Aragorn thought, another way it could kill me. Struggling seemed pointless, even dangerous now, but he could not help himself as the long, shockingly finger-like tip of the tentacle began to caress his face and poke at his lips, seeking entrance to his mouth.

Aragorn could not curse again, for if he opened his mouth, the creature would take the opportunity. A squeeze to his throat warned him that his situation was precarious, and shuddering in revulsion, he allowed that fingerlike appendage to push inward and slide over his tongue. A bitter, wet sensation flooded his mouth, and he nearly gagged as the tentacle began to ripple slowly, not pushing too deep, but seeming to grow in width.  
The others that held him were not idle. Aragorn heard a rending sound as his thin wet shirt was torn from his body, and slick coils began to pulsate up and down his chest. He made a strangled sound as the ridged grippers on the tentacles’ undersides plucked at his nipples and left little stinging nips down his belly. The arms holding his legs moved apart, spreading his thighs wide, and Aragorn shivered and squirmed as several supple tongue-like fingers like the one in his mouth slid themselves through the opening in his breeches, exploring his member and sac of stones - which were having a treacherous response, for long had it been since they were touched by any hand but his own.

Aragorn was horrified and repulsed at his body’s responses, and helplessly he writhed and struggled although he knew it would avail him not to escape; every motion of him seemed to excite the creature to touch him even more hungrily and bawdily. He closed his eyes again as the tentacles that were wrapped about his legs and hips coiled around and through the seams of his breeches, splitting them effortlessly and leaving him now completely undressed in the obscene, rippling grasp of the beast. Slender, strong vine-like arms insinuated themselves between his spread thighs, pressing against him and giving counterpoint to his helpless movements. Another fingertip, slick and lean, began to probe at his arse while yet another took hold of his staff of flesh with suggestive tugs and pulses.

Aragorn groaned as he felt himself heating and hardening, responding to the slick, tight strokes around his length. The little tentacle in his mouth released a substance that burned and tingled and warmed him within, and seemed to almost calm his fear - well he knew that this was some sort of potion, a gentle venom to placate the creature’s victim as the tentacles took their terrible toll. Vainly he struggled against its effects - as vainly as he tried to clench his arse to prevent the ultimate indignity the beast clearly desired. Aragorn choked on it but a little as the thick column of flesh in his mouth began to thrust slowly (and he would _not_ think of Halbarad, he would _not_ ) distracting him from the thin insistent tendril below that tickled and seemed to lick his hole open, pushing harder with each supple stroke.

The wet pressure surrounding his arousal was insistent, and against his will he was drowning in the pleasure of the slick squeeze of it, the almost gentle rhythmic sway (and he would _not_ think of Arwen, he would _not._ ). His body’s own responses carried him past shame now, and the sound that came out of his throat when he was at last breached by a thick muscular appendage had little in it of fear or pain, and far too much of lust; Aragorn’s writhing against it continued, and escape had long since left his mind. Since he had no choice, he gave himself up to the dreadful pleasure the creature was inflicting upon him. The shame of being taken so fully and so forcefully wracked him as the tentacles heaved him up and shook him like a child’s doll as they fucked him in every possible way. The girth of the great tool thrusting in and out of his fundament seemed to swell and grow, stretching him out, and it bent and rippled in pulsating rhythm that matched the tugs on his member, filling him with degraded ecstasy from his belly to his trapped, straining thighs.

He gave a helpless sound and let his head fall back as a second tentacle, slimmer and longer than the first, slid into him and also began to wriggle, pulling out as the second drove in, pumping roughly. His prick was now fully encased in a strong, slimy grasp, and a slim tendril coiled around his sac and tugged. Aragorn let his whole body go limp for a time, absorbing the forceful thrusts and pulls and probings, becoming just a wet and weak vessel for this creature’s insatiable use. He was held up and supported effortlessly - if his feet or fingers began to drag on the water’s surface, the next mighty thrust would lift him up again.

Aragorn nearly fainted with the horror and pleasure intertwined, and now he wished for the moon to turn his face away completely, praying for darkness - for when he looked down, he saw his own body encased in what looked like a dozen writhing serpents, slithering and undulating and plucking at his most sensitive parts with their little kissing suckers. His cock seemed encased in a slick tube of flesh that pumped him and sucked him. Closing his eyes again, he fell into darkness for a time as his body convulsed in the climax of pleasure. The mouthlike appendage wrapped around the head of his member seemed almost to drink and devour as Aragorn’s bollocks emptied into it, as he moaned and gasped desperately as so many ecstatic convulsions shook him that he felt the strain upon his heart, as though he were running many leagues with all the hordes of Mordor behind him.

 _Now it might be done with me,_ he thought. _Now it will kill me._ As darkness took him, he only wondered how. And to his surprise, he came back to himself lying in the mud, naked and violated and aching, but alive. The surface of the water was smooth and calm, as if no creature had stirred at all. He yearned to yield to sweet oblivion and sleep, but he knew he had to get far, far away from this place. Very well - he would cross the mountains tonight after all, even in his weakened condition.

Aragorn was relieved to find he still had clothes to change into, and the skin of Dorwinion wine still retained its property of being forever half-full - he took a deep chug gratefully, chasing the last of the creature’s mating-draught from his mouth. Had it only wanted his seed after all? Was that a food source for beasts of its kind? Were there _others_ of its kind, lurking in still pools all over Middle-earth? How did Ulmo stand for it? Quickly he packed up everything he owned, and clutched at his sword like a child clutches its mother’s hand, though he suspected it would have availed him little.

It occurred to him that Balin ought to be warned of this danger, and yet he could think of no way in which he would want to explain it. Perhaps he should simply keep an eye on the situation, as a Ranger should. _Yes, that is it,_ Aragorn thought. _I shall return once in a while, to see if this creature is still here and make sure it has not grown or otherwise become more deadly. To keep an eye on it. And if it should happen to take me and make such use of me again, well, this is the unappreciated sacrifice my people have long made - facing terrible danger so that others may rest easy and innocent._


End file.
